Cut three, still standing

Three times this month. That is the number I keep circling. The cut above my left brow has opened three times in August now, and every time it heals the scar tissue pulls tighter, which means the next time it opens it pulls harder, and somewhere in that math is a fighter with a brow that does not want to stay closed. I said none of that to anyone. I said it to myself on the mat with blood in my eye and the floor watching.

I took a knee. A fighter takes a knee when his legs are gone, and mine were not gone, but a heavy bag at speed does not care about your legs. Danny did not move. He was waiting to see what I did next.

Josh crossed the floor. We have not spoken about the main event in two weeks, which is its own kind of conversation, and his hand came out of nowhere. I took it. I do not know what that handshake was. I am not going to ask.

Rob told me at the lockers, laughing, that Lev had texted Danny within the hour. Bag broke the swimmer. I laughed too because that is what you do when someone tells you the joke that is your own life. The swimmer. I was that at twenty-two. I am twenty-seven now with a bout signed and a cut that will not close and a chain mount that swings because somebody did not rig it right. Three different problems. Only one of them is mine.